


Ashes

by doctorbleak



Series: Green Girls: A Guide To Coping On Earth C [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Earth C (Homestuck), Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Not Canon Compliant - The Homestuck Epilogues, POV Second Person, Past Abuse, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 07:52:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19291450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorbleak/pseuds/doctorbleak
Summary: Only a few years fresh out of creating a brand new universe and only barely settled into having the new life she's been given, a girl who got everything she ever wanted fixes some breakfast and thinks about scars that she doesn't have.





	Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> This was, in a nutshell, a prolonged vent oneshot where I ruminated on my thoughts about my own abuser through the narrative lens of Calliope's relationship with Caliborn. Thanks to that, it's probably not my best work, nor even one of my particularly good works, but it'd otherwise be 3500 words that I dumped down the drain. Now it's 7:30 in the morning and I haven't slept. Goodnight.
> 
> Edit, 11/18/19 - Fixed up some formatting issues.

You've spent a long time now integrated into cultures that aren't yours; it's been a fairly easy process, what with how long you spent doing it on your own. Years of deep, intensive study into troll culture will do that to a person. When someone engrosses their very sense of identity entirely into a culture that isn't theirs, the idea of having an open mind begins to make more and more sense as, in essence, the only real option that you have. As such, for the most part, yes, it's been fairly easy to integrate into the traditions of the motley crew of cultures on Earth C. From the bizarre habits of the salamanders to the ways that troll culture as you know it has come to evolve under the hands of your peers' close guidance and well-needed social restructuring, you've found yourself carving out a comfortable niche for the most part.

That being said, there are traditions that have never made sense to you. Trolls do not bury their dead, generally, for lack of time or reason to. Cherubs are traditionally a solitary species and are, as such, much the same way, simply dying and letting the worlds of the universe consume their meat and bone like rocks in an ancient river; though even if they weren't, you're sure it would be a habit that you'd have picked up on from your time dousing yourself in that familiar grey paint. Carapacians have a variety of burial practices that largely depend on the situation, but it's to your understanding that they're also no stranger to simply leaving bodies to the world. Funerals used to occur on the Sburban moons, of course, but that's making the presumption that the ways of a certain wayward vagabond persisted truly and accurately to those of his predecessors; of course, though, one who is both so traumatized by the ways of war and so idealistic about the future of his people would perhaps be prone to making a handful of changes based on the environment he has come to find himself most comfortable in. Thus, the Prospitians and the Dersites both, for all of the differences they may once have had, manage to unite themselves fully in death as they leave their bodies to the world, perhaps with the occasional bed of roses surrounding them or the odd funeral marker over the top, evoking their origins. These are all traditions that make sense to you; in death, we move forward, leaving our dead to become a part of the world they have no doubt come to love.

You have never understood human cremation practices with this same histrionic sense of poetic fondness.

There has always been something that struck you as odd about the idea. You still recall the first time you were introduced to the process at length, while at an event with your friends celebrating the second anniversary of the day that you all one the game, as per your collectively shoddy understanding of the calendar system; realistically, when several peers of yours have control over time to some extent, it doesn't truly matter if you subscribe to a previously established flow of time, but it's hard not to. Regardless, at one point that you can't earnestly manage to remember, you found yourselves discussing the idea of sprites; you're certain it was some comment or another of Davepeta's that roused a few laughs and brought the attention to the topic of sprites, eventually leading to the topic of John's grandmother (who you've always found to be a nice woman, by the by). That is to say, more specifically, the topic of the incident that brought about her prototyping; when her ashes were sent into the kernelsprite. Quietly, you whispered to your girlfriend that you were stepping out to take a breath, something that she didn't particularly question; she knows that you're not used to big groups of people.

In the privacy of your bathroom stall, you had a hushed conversation with Dave over Trollian in which he revealed to you what exactly the purpose of an urn of ashes is; you've always felt like he was the easiest person to ask about things you don't understand like this. Ever since then, you've been stuck thinking about it. To keep a tangible physical testament solely created to represent death and loss around you in such a fragile physical form wasn't something that you could wrap your head around. It markedly served no purpose other than reminding you of your loss and risking turning into some sort of messy accident if something went wrong. You're not one to reject the idea of sentiment, but this felt less like sentiment and more like some incomprehensible form of flagellation. To keep photos, trinkets, perhaps even clothes and other belongings, all of that was within the scope of your rationalization, but the ashes were something that didn't make sense under any train of thought you were able to comprehend for the longest time.

A short while ago, you found yourself anxiously running a hand up your arm over something that you don't even remember now; a nervous habit, from when you used to wear suits all the time. The feeling of your hand against the fabric was some bizarre form of comfort to yourself. You haven't broken the habit, in spite of the fact that you've taken to wearing more dresses than suits now that you've had chances to diversify your wardrobe. You noticed yourself touching skin instead of fabric and noted to yourself how nice it felt to be able to wear a dress; when your wardrobe was something you were forced to share, you never had the chance. Thus, while the lack of fabric was odd, it was nice to feel the sensation of your own skin; you let your hand rest there for just a moment, somewhat idly and slowly running it along your own leathery skin.

It took you a moment to realize what was wrong.

You keep telling yourself that "wrong" isn't the correct word; it's not an imperfection. Quite the opposite, if anything. When you shared a body with your brother, you were able to feel a number of small scars and wounds on most days; things that Caliborn had done either to hurt you intentionally or to hurt himself in an act of frustration with himself. Or, at the least, that's what you came to assume they were; you'd find yourself waking up next to piles of snapped pencils and hastily-scribbled drawings on now-crumpled lined paper, new bruises forming on certain parts of your body from what you can only imagine was a burst of frustration over his drawings' dissatisfying progress. You had a process for this; you'd ice down the wounds, sanitize what scratches you could actually feel, then resume your day as normal. Most of it healed over time, but the odd one would scar in a way that you weren't able to do much about. The one that you'd come to be most familiar with was one on your left wrist. When you were still making more active attempts to try to make a connection with your brother, you took it upon yourself to include some pointers on one of his drawings; encouragement on what he'd done... _relatively_ well, as well as suggestions on what you inferred he was having trouble with. You woke the next switch with a large gash across your wrist, caked with red blood and dripping with fresher lime green, a bloody and bent ink pen abandoned on the floor beside your shared bed and torn paper scattered among the irregular blood droplets. The scar had stayed even after the wound itself healed, but you only occasionally noticed it; it wasn't often that you palmed at your own wrists, especially not in the comfort of your suit jacket.

Dying came with few advantages, but what you had perceived as one was the fact that, just as what occurs with those who have ascended to their god tiers, your body became much more like what you wanted the body itself to be; these were largely minor changes. You'd spoken to the others about this, to some extent. You've seldom interacted with Jake on Earth C, but you spent a weekend at his estate editing a friend fiction of Dirk's on request; conversations with Jake are unavoidable, generally, with those you had there revealing to you that he's not had to deal with a spot of acne since he ascended. You couldn't help but mentally compare this to your own experiences; your skin had felt just a modest bit smoother since your death and rebirth, not to mention the obvious lack of visible wounds or lasting scarring from your death itself. It hadn't been something that you realized at the time that this was a universal phenomenon across your body; it wasn't just recent scars that you lacked, but all of them. Thus, as you traced your arm that evening, it came to your attention that you'd been relieved of that gash from all of those long years prior. Someone else in your shoes—or, you note to yourself, lack thereof—would have and should have been happy to find this. You've since been grappling with the realization that you were not.

Roxy does not tend to wake up early; it is not that you wake particularly early yourself, at least since your rebirth, but moreso that she sleeps so late these days that getting up at any time of day before four in the evening could be considered earlier than her. As such, it's rather common that you've found yourself making a morning breakfast, as you're doing right now. You tend to prepare a rather unfortunate meal of awkwardly cut and seasoned meats for yourself, then get to making some toast and eggs for Roxy; she isn't particularly partial to eggs, but she's told you that, when you make them, she likes them. You brush off the thought that she's probably just saying that.

As you pop some toast into the toaster—whole grain, four slices, peanut butter and a banana set aside to add to it when it's finished, just as she likes it—you find yourself in a bit of a daze as you stare at a complex mural that you created with both her help and Davepeta's. With your eyes drooping from the throes of recent sleep and your mind whirring, it's all little more than colors and shapes to you in this moment. It serves as, more than a painting, a target for you to focus your consciousness on as your brain drifts away and you find yourself at that same place that you keep going back to. You run your hand over your arm again, as if you're expecting to find the scar has appeared. You're unable to understand why you're upset when you find that that's not the case. This is a repeating pattern that you've been falling into for days now.

Being granted your ring and coming to Earth C was, essentially, everything you've ever wanted. You didn't have to wake up bound in a chain anymore, nor mentally bound, no less literally if less physically, to what was quite literally a snarling, animalistic manifestation of your complicated relationship with masculinity and manhood. Further, you actually had friends to turn to now; not text on a screen, but friends you could visit. People who would make an effort to speak to you and to acknowledge you, an effort to spend time with you face to face, to include you in their activities and events. That's not to even mention Roxy, who you cannot stress enough you are enamored with; to fall asleep each night in the arms of someone who so constantly amazes you, loving and feeling loved, is something that you would honestly say completes you. You have always struggled to feel as if you're beautiful, but Roxy has an interesting way of finding beauty in things that you'd never have considered anywhere close to beautiful, most of all yourself. With all of this being said, you should feel as complete as you are. You have a home to yourself, shared with the love of your life, spending each and every day free to be your own person and experience a calm, peaceful world alongside your dearest friends.

You wish more than anything to say that you don't know why you can't be.

Cherubs are social creatures, no matter how much anyone claims to the contrary; cherubs are built upon the foundation of spending their lives with others as a natural part of their life cycles, from life to death, in some form or another. Most often, this was with your twin; later in life, a mate that shared much the same role. This was the traditional pattern for a cherub. For most of your life, this was no less true for you; for everything that Caliborn was, he was your brother and you were always a part of each other's lives. You've come to realize that it was perhaps... _idealistic_ to presume you could always coexist, let alone in the way you did, but that doesn't mean that he wasn't a part of your life. For a traditional cherub, you would have eventually seen one of you predominate naturally and the other would fade away with time. You are not a traditional cherub.

Perhaps another cherub would have had a relationship with their twin that allowed them some sense of closure when they eventually came to be of a single mind. Unfortunately, your relationship with your brother never gave you many opportunities for finality of any sort. Rather, to be of a conjoined mind with Caliborn was to be part of a constant series of challenges to your sense of self. Some days, things were relatively harmless; on good days, you'd think, with confidence, that you could have a good relationship if you tried just a bit harder. Others, you would wake covered in the telltale scars of your brother's ire towards you, messages scrawled over drawings you'd spent hours upon hours doing by hand illustrating in detail how much of an insufferable, unlikable skank you supposedly were. For one of those, the scars were a reminder of how hated you were; of each and every way that someone who you were forced to spend each and every day with wanted nothing more than for you to be out of his life. For the other, however, they were a reminder of the fact that this was someone who, for all of the things he did to hurt you, was still family. If you could only try just a bit harder, find just the right thing to do or say, perhaps it would all get better. Perhaps you'd be able to share the body forever, with him warming up to you and to others, opening up and making it so that every day could be a shared experience between the two of you and your peers, not a fight for dominance. Perhaps, if you tried just a bit harder, he could come to see you as a friend, and a confida—

Your entire train of thought promptly comes to a screeching halt, abruptly and without any gravitas, as the toast pops up.

HOBART ET27-4 4 SLICE TOASTER: *shunk*  
CALLIOPE: jesUs!  


You take the toast from the toaster and begin to idly turn it into peanut butter and banana sandwiches, just like Roxy likes it, just like you make every morning. You have to imagine that she's tired of it by now, but she certainly hasn't informed you that she is if so. You are a creature of habit and of gaiety, so as long as it seems to make her happy you'll persist all the same with making the meal day in and day out. Doing it often enough, you've come to notice how the toast cooks slightly differently each day; it's a very small detail, not important to Roxy's enjoyment of it or your cooking of it, but it's nonetheless something you notice. As you hold the toast in one hand and butter it with the other, small flakes from where it has the slightest burn drift off of it with your knife strokes, the ashes falling down gently onto your waiting wrist. You set the toast down and gently wipe the ashes off into the kitchen sink beside you, watching them as they circle the drain when you turn the faucet on for the slightest of moments. In a way, it helps you fixate yourself on a different train of thought than your lack of scars, at least for the briefest moment, before they run down the drain and you flip the faucet off. As a familiar silence fills the room again, you're reminded for just a moment of the coincidence that is the fact that ash has become such a recurring idea for you recently. You can't help but just momentarily dwell, for the slightest of moments, back on that idea that it perplexes you that someone could ever want to spend each day being forced to see something that's a reminder of their own pain, idly running your hand along your arm as the thought renews a sense of anxiety in you.

Your phone goes off, leading you to wonder how long you've been locked in a staring contest with the drain of the sink. As you do each morning—more or less, at least—you pick it up and open your messaging application to be greeted with good mornings at a time significantly later than most would call "morning."

tipsyGnostalgic [TG] began pestering uranianUmbra [UU] at 4:48  
  
TG: u up already babe?  


You stop running your hand down your arm long enough to check the message with the hand nearest to it, pausing for a moment. The love of your life is messaging you to check on you. You are in your beautiful house together, making a breakfast for her with love and care exactly as she likes it. There's not a single scar on your body and you are happy to have freedom from someone who spent so long hurting you. You are happy, safe, and free to be yourself, and it is all you've ever wanted. You almost don't notice that stroking your arm has turned to a grip so tight that it draws a few drops of lime green blood, a sight and sensation that you notice with an overwhelming and instant sense of guilt. As quickly as the drops came, you wiped them away and washed the wound, running the faucet quietly and shutting it back off once more. Your brain hastily compares that accident, in an intrusive and ill-timed thought, to the way that your brother would express his own frustration with things, a thought you dismiss as soon as you're able to manage to. He was a part of your life in the past; that's it. He's not a thought that you want to be having anymore. You don't want him to be part of the life that you have now. Every moment you spend thinking about your brother is a moment you're not spending being part of a life you should be happy with. For all of the hurting that he caused you, both emotionally and physically, there's nothing to miss; there's nothing to wax nostalgic about or drift to thinking about. You are a happy person living a happy life and the person who hurt you most is not part of it. You're glad about that, unambiguously.

After all, what kind of person _wants_ to have a testament to their own pain around all the time?

You finally pick your phone back up, cracking a small smile as you respond to Roxy and let her know that you're about to get the eggs going. As you back out of the chat, your index finger hovers over your chat list, holding for just a moment over the other TG that you have listed among your contacts. After what feels like an eternity of holding in a breath, you decide to click it.

uranianUmbra [UU] began cheering turntechGodhead [TG] at 4:51  
  
UU: good afternoon, dave. ^u^  
UU: are yoU available at the moment, by any chance?  
TG: idk im going down pretty hard on this tray of bagel bites right now  
TG: it might keep me too distracted to answer my literal stepmother  
TG: who knows  
UU: am i safe to take that as a yes?  
TG: yeah  
TG: whats up  
UU: i have somewhat of a serioUs qUestion for yoU, if that's okay.  
UU: it's nothing Urgent, jUst something i think yoU might be eqUipped to answer.  
TG: shoot  


Again, you pause for a long, heavy moment, almost reconsidering. You know that if you don't ask you're going to keep going back and forth in your head. Finally, you let the breath out. This would not be your first conversation about grim reminders, you suppose, so you go ahead and press send. 

UU: do you ever miss yoUr brother?  



End file.
